Magnificat (15 page)

“Certainly, Your Eminence,” said Willie with a covert grin. He was beginning to regret he had promised not to write about this meeting unless Mendosa gave him a written release to do so. “Magistrate Zhuang, my friend wishes you to know he is grateful for your attention; he is much obliged to you for allowing him the opportunity to talk with you.”

“Is that true?” Magistrate Zhuang asked Nigel No.

“Yes, it is, Worthy Magistrate,” said Nigel at once.

Magistrate Zhuang indicated the double door on the other side of the entryway. Her manner was no-nonsense but cordial. “My office is here, gentlemen. There are chairs for everyone around the table. Will you please come in.”

“Thank her again, Willie,” said Mendosa.

When Willie had done this, Magistrate Zhuang made a gesture of dismissal. “It is not necessary to repeat. I accept your thanks. Now I would like to hear your pressing reason to speak with me.”

“It is difficult to explain,” said Mendosa, Willie translating.

She regarded Willie and Mendosa with curiosity. “What is the cause of the difficulty? Why would you come to far to see me if it is so difficult to tell me now you are here? Have you made the circumstances more difficult than necessary? If any Magistrate would do for your purpose, then your presence here is all the more puzzling.” She was handling this as she would deal with a dispute among neighbors. Her brows rose as she listened to Willie translate and waited for an answer.

“Get this one right for me, Willie,” said Mendosa before he addressed Magistrate Zhuang. “The difficulties do appear to be necessary. My errand is to you and no other. No other anywhere in the world will do, Holiness.”

“I’m not going to translate Holiness, not now and not ever,” Willie said to Mendosa. “It isn’t acceptable here.”

Magistrate Zhuang looked to Nigel No. “What are they saying? Speak the truth!”

Nigel glanced at Mendosa and shrugged. “He has called you Holiness twice, Worthy Magistrate, and Mister Foot is reluctant to translate, because he does not wish to offend you.”

“That is an incorrect thing, to call someone Holiness,” she declared, her expression stern. “If this is the difficulty you have mentioned, then I recommend that you do not use such an inappropriate title.”

Willie did his best to convey all this to Mendosa as quickly as he could, adding, “I warned you, Charles. Eminence.”

“Stop that,” said Mendosa, and addressed Magistrate Zhuang directly. “I call you Holiness because…because I am convinced you have been chosen to do a holy thing. It would be disrespectful of me to call you anything else but Holiness, or your current title, Worthy Magistrate. And,” he added to Willie, “don’t leave any of it out.”

“All right,” said Willie, and told Magistrate Zhuang what Mendosa had said. “My friend is an honest man, Worthy Magistrate. He does not dissemble often, and he is not dissembling now. He will not abuse your interest or your judgment.”

“Not knowingly,” Mendosa amended when Willie translated the last for him. “But Rome, well, it’s a snakepit. Tell her that, too.”

“Now?” Willie asked, not expecting an answer.

“Not quite yet. But she will have to know eventually,” said Mendosa. He looked at Magistrate Zhuang. “I ask your pardon for coming to you in this manner; we mean no disrespect to you or the task that you may decide to accept. There was no other way to reach you, not without much greater intrusions. Please do not confuse our mission with our appearance.”

When he finished translating, Willie said to Mendosa, “Brushing up your old Papal Nuncio skills, are you? You’re being quite the diplomat.”

“That was years ago,” said Mendosa, a bit irritated to have it brought up at so precarious a time. “It has nothing to do with now.”

“Except that you’re a Cardinal on a mission,” said Willie, and then turned to Magistrate Zhuang. “My friend is trying to find the best way to explain matters to you, Worthy Magistrate, and asks your understanding while we try to agree on how to tell you.”

“Is that so?” Magistrate Zhuang asked Nigel No.

“More or less,” Nigel answered. “It’s close enough.”

This satisfied her. With a gesture toward a number of low chairs, she offered, “If you will all sit down, I will bring tea.”

“Thank you,” said Willie for all of them.

Mendosa realized that she was about to serve him, and he said, “But it isn’t right. One of us should serve her.” He started toward Magistrate Zhuang, saying, “Holiness, Worthy Magistrate, it isn’t fitting. Tell me what you wish me to do and I will be pleased to serve you.”

She looked at him in mild alarm. “Tell this man that I am going to bring tea. I am not running away, or calling to inform the police he is here. Just tea.”

Willie was caught in confusion, trying to translate for both of them at once. Finally he said, “Charles, let her get the tea. This is her home and we are her guests. It is polite for her to do this, and if you prevent her, you will be rude. She doesn’t know why you’re here, or why you think she ought not to serve you. She doesn’t know who you are or who you think she is.”

Mendosa, chastened, held back. “All right. Yes. I see that. I’m sorry.” He had gone rather pale and when he sat down he was breathing fast again.

“Lucky thing you’re healthy,” Willie said when Mendosa had been quiet a short while. “You’re worse than someone with his finger in a lightsocket, Charles.”

“I certainly feel that way,” said Mendosa. “But that’s nothing.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t help it. You don’t know what this is like for me. You’re not Catholic.”

“Lapsed,” Willie reminded him, the wretched memories of his loss of faith coiling through his thoughts, then gone again.

“Before you were ten,” said Mendosa. “I know what the Jesuits say about having a child before seven, but it’s not always true.”

“It wasn’t in my case,” said Willie, who usually hated talking about his experiences of the Church. “I still like the Church, in a way.”

“Yes, as you like that dotty old aunt of yours in Northumberland, the one you can’t be sure whether she’s senile or just very eccentric.” Mendosa was not able to laugh, but a smile twitched his lips.

Willie acknowledged his effort. “Not bad for someone who’s close to fainting.”

“You’re too kind,” said Mendosa in a perfect Oxbridge accent.

Magistrate Zhuang came back into the room carrying a round lacquer tray with a teapot, cups, and a dish of dried plums and cookies. She set this down, then went about pouring the tea. “Some westerners like milk and sugar with their tea, but I’m afraid I do not have any.”

“This is fine, Worthy Magistrate,” said Willie. “You are most gracious to three weary foreigners.”

She handed a cup to Willie first, and then to Nigel No. “You understand, perhaps, that I am very curious about the reason you are here. I cannot imagine anyone coming so far to talk to a regional Magistrate.” She poured tea for Mendosa and watched him carefully as he took it. “Why does he look at me that way?”

“She wants to know why you’re staring, Charles,” said Willie, taking one of the dried plums, which he detested. Prunes were bad enough, but these Chinese versions were like desiccated bits of liver, one flaw in an otherwise perfect cuisine. “Make sure you taste some of everything,” he warned Mendosa. “You don’t want to be more rude.”

“I know about that,” said Charles, sipping his tea. “Worthy Magistrate,” he said, still staring. “I hope you will not mind, but I must ask you a few questions. I’ve come almost half-way around the world to ask them. Are you willing to answer them for me?”

“If it is possible,” she said when Willie had translated. “And if it is not possible, I will say no.” She did not smile but there was a softening of her eyes that Mendosa found more encouraging than anything else in her reception of them.

“Do you know about the Roman Catholic Church?” He waited to hear her answer.

“A terrible institution, for the oppression of the people and for their delusion. It is an institution of great, abusive power and wealth. The People’s Republic of China in its wisdom does not recognize that corrupt institution.” Her eyes had hardened once more.

“Yes,” said Mendosa when Willie was through. “I did reckon she wasn’t too fond of us; it’s the Party line. Still, in many ways, she’s right. You can tell her I said so.”

“Okay,” said Willie, and did.

“Why are you in China, if you are asking questions about this foreign and illegal institution?” she demanded before Mendosa could ask a second question.

“I am here,” Mendosa said very deliberately, “because I am an official of the Roman Catholic Church, a Cardinal, one of the highest ranks within the Church. And as a Cardinal, I have certain duties that compel me to seek you out.” There he thought, the first hurdle crossed. If he could get over this one, maybe the next would be easier.

“You represent a very unworthy institution,” said Magistrate Zhuang without apology, which Willie translated without varnish.

“It would be improper of me to agree, but I do think that oftentimes your opinion is the correct one. Much of what the Church has done is unworthy of its purpose,” said Mendosa, some of his worry turning wry. “Still, there are those of us who try to keep it from sinking into corruption completely. That is part of my sworn obligation as a Cardinal. The College of Cardinals elects the new Pope when one has died.”

“A cabal of venal old men!” Magistrate Zhuang’s eyes measured Mendosa critically, as if attempting to discern how much of this he was willing to take from her.

“That is certainly true,” said Mendosa, and found Willie’s consternation amusing. “The Catholic religion teaches that among its other gifts, the Holy Spirit inspires the election of the Pope, though most of the time it is politics and power, like most rich bureaucracies. However, once in a while, something happens.”

“The Holy Spirit is a myth used to coerce the people into obeying unjust laws and accepting debauched leaders,” said Magistrate Zhuang, but with less fervor than before.

“I won’t dispute that, most of the time,” said Mendosa. “The Holy Spirit has been used as the excuse for every barbarity and act of intolerance instigated by the Church since the Council of Nicea. But that, Worthy Magistrate, does not mean it does not exist.” His tea was growing cold; he set the cup aside and took one of the salty rice cookies while Willie spoke for him.

“Of course it does not exist,” said Magistrate Zhuang. She added more tea to his cup.

“Now there, Holiness, we disagree,” said Mendosa when he heard what she had said.

“If it is anything, it is a convenient fiction, something to render the unacceptable welcome.” She did not smile at him, but she waited with interest to hear his response. It was apparent that she enjoyed verbal fencing even with the clumsiness of a translator.

“Most of the time, probably so. But not always.” He drank the tea while Willie did his job, and then went on. “And whether you believe in the Holy Spirit or not, it seems to believe in you.”

When Willie translated this last, Magistrate Zhuang half-rose, her face darkening with emotion. “What despicable—”

“Willie,” said Mendosa, “tell her that I do not mean to offend her. Right now.” He remained still, his expression as sincere as before, though it was difficult not to react to her outburst.

“Please listen to him, Worthy Magistrate. He has come all this way, and he has put himself in great disfavor with many of the other Cardinals for doing this. What he is doing has caused him to lose face with some of his colleagues, but he is convinced that speaking with you is more important than their good opinion. It is his…piety”—what a strange word to use about Charles, Cardinal Mendosa, he thought as he said it, knowing it was accurate—“that brings him here.”

“How is coming here pious?” the Magistrate asked scornfully.

“It is because the Holy Spirit requires it of me,” said Mendosa quietly. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, Worthy Magistrate, and I am bound by my vows to act upon its mandate.”

“This is getting very dicey,” said Willie before translating.

“Only fools believe in such legends,” said Magistrate Zhuang.

“But you do believe in piety, in integrity, don’t you, Worthy Magistrate? You believe it is good conduct to keep vows made?” asked Mendosa, ignoring Willie’s pained expression.

“Integrity is a virtue. Constancy is a virtue,” she said, measuring her words now, as if she were expecting a trap. “Family piety is a virtue.”

“Then you understand why I am here,” Mendosa met her eyes and smiled, a very little smile.

“Yes,” she said when she had thought about it a moment. “I suppose I do. If I had made a vow, I would strive to keep it.” She touched the pot. “The tea is growing cool. Would any of you like more?”

All three declined, though Nigel No looked disappointed.

“Let me tell you what has happened. You will be one of less than a dozen people outside the College of Cardinals who know this, Worthy Magistrate. Listen to me, please.” Mendosa turned to Willie. “Do your very best.”

When Willie was through, Magistrate Zhuang said, “Why should you tell me this thing, if it is so secret?”

“Because it concerns you.” He saw her falter as Willie translated. “Pope Celestine died not long ago, after a very brief reign. He ought never to have been elevated; he was a compromise. You may say that is nothing new, and that’s right. But you see, it was not only a compromise among the Cardinals, it was a compromise with the Holy Spirit.”

Magistrate Zhuang listened, patently doubting every word. “How can you be certain of that?”

“Because, Holiness, when each Cardinal wrote the name of the one we each believed, in our souls, was the one the Holy Spirit wanted for Pope, something inexplicable happened. Every single one of us wrote your name.” He did not balk as he said this; he looked her directly in the eyes. “Every one of us.”

“That’s…ridiculous ,” said Magistrate Zhuang, but her face was white and the words were a whisper.

“And when Celestine died, we met in conclave—technically we are still in conclave—and we all wrote your name a second time.” He was quite calm now, caught in a certainty that restored him.